


A Really, Really Old Friend

by octavia_romanus



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Angst, Erik the dork, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Old Age, but there's no happy ending, cautiously hopeful Charles, old coots in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-25 07:57:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2614208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octavia_romanus/pseuds/octavia_romanus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Though Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr are much too old to be considered candidates for romance, they somehow manage to pull it off. After hiding their feelings for who-knows-how-long, they finally confess to each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Really, Really Old Friend

It was actually quite surprising that it had taken him this long to figure it out. Though Erik was a master assassin, a master mutant, and a master motivational speaker, he was still a master idiot.

And now, as Magneto lay next to his adversary—no, his old friend; after all, they were fighting for the same thing— his eyes were wide with shock, and if he weren’t wearing that damned helmet, Charles would be able to revel in how remarkably stupid he was. His voice was a soft croak. “You—You—”

And now Charles was tearing up; how utterly helpful. “Yes, Charles, you idiot.” He hadn’t cried for quite a while. He’d been quite happy with his life, with teaching these young mutant children, with watching them grow in their knowledge, in their power, in their social connections. And, yes, these children included the students he’d taught that were now well into their adulthood. He still remembered Storm as a small, frightened girl, clutching books to her chest, eyes glued to the floor—much different from her now, a strong, motherly figure who hastened to helping the pupils at all costs.

“Charles—” The voice was strangled, eyes ravaged with guilt and pain and shame. Magneto sucked in a breath, unable to continue.

“You’re—You’re a stronger man than this, Erik,” the Professor tried, swallowing the lump in his throat so he wouldn’t sound like he was on the verge of tears. “You always were.” Slowly, never taking his eyes off his friend, he moved his hand so that it rested gently, comfortingly, on Erik’s.

“Always—” a soft, breathy chuckle as Magneto’s eyes themselves stared blankly upwards. “Always wanted you to do that.”

* * *

Erik wasn’t nearly as focused as he should have been. Though he was meant to be focusing on the lead in the batteries, his mind was instead in a place that was much more distant.

Well, to say that his thoughts were centered on an object that was physically farther away than the battery would be wrong, and thusly unfair, but the place where his mind was quickly going was far from real.

He’d been driven near insane thinking about the way that certain person’s skin would feel against his own. Every time he spoke, Erik would end up staring at the tiny lines carved into the hands of the professor, wondering how those lines would play their part in the glorious matching of skin on skin, hand on hand, hand on cheek, hands in hair, hands in delicate crevices—

Ugh. Erik didn’t know if his thoughts of touching Charles were perverted in nature or if his mind were simply putting himself in a situation in which he wanted to... wanted to...

After all, it wasn’t like he craved a handshake from every fellow on the streets. Or dame, for that matter.

He could always ask Charles, but he’d never trust the lad with something so delicate as this.

A hand clamped down onto his bare shoulder, resulting in a painful thwacking noise and an incredibly accelerated heartbeat. Erik opened his mouth to argue, but he was too late.

A sharp hissing noise came from beside him, caused (obviously) by the sharp intake of breath brushing against the tongue. “Sorry about that—sounded like it hurt. Anyhoo,” ugh, his voice was dripping with that smug British sarcasm, “I’ll say this for the fifth time now: are you watching anything important on that blank telly screen or would you be a dear and pass me the re—”

The remote control was whipped into the professor’s hand. Neither man flinched.

“—mote. Well,” and here he chuckled, “looks like we work on our reaction time next practice.”

Lehnsherr was not so pedestrian as to retaliate. As a matter of fact, he had much grander matters to think of, as he’d recently found that Charles’ hand was slightly damp and clammy. His touch sent fire up into his nerves, heat pooling in the right side of his neck deliriously, and it was really a wonder he was able to move the remote at all, given his mental state.

Charles’ hand leapt off his shoulder so fast that it was as if the guy could read his mind.

Damn. There really were no secrets around this kid.

* * *

The edges of Erik’s eyes crinkled gently, and, briefly, hotly, Charles wished he’d acted sooner. When he was young, he was victim to the throes of passion, victim to the burning desire of touch. Now—ha, now, well, he was old. And incredibly so, as many of his pupils would joke. That wasn’t to say that the desire to touch had gone, but now, it was much softer, a need to brush mussed hair out of eyes, to kiss gently and affectionately, to mouth I love you’s onto tender lips.

Perhaps, if he had acted sooner, the tensions between the mutants would have cooled. But, knowing Erik, the professor and his humanitarian options would probably have been trampled if love were in the equation. However, there would always be a twinge of uncertainty, a hope that Erik’s love would surpass his need for revenge, that the movies were right and that love did, in fact, cure all, and Erik would fight alongside him and—

No. He was falling, falling straight back into fantasy. And he’d learned that some fantasies would just make him weaker.

“Erik?” The question was barely above a whisper, the fear clawing up from the professor’s throat and into his voice.

His only response was to focus his eyes back onto the other man’s face, trying to retain a clear image. He sucked in another hollow breath, yet still stared unblinkingly with those bright blue orbs.

“Would you... would you have...” It had suddenly become difficult to speak; the air around them suddenly swirled with weight. “Would you have...” His voice diminished in volume, until it barely made a sound. The doubt was eating at him, and suddenly, he wasn’t sure if he wanted the answer to this question.

Among other things, Erik had always been the master of smugly repeating whatever Charles had said. And, sure enough, he began to do exactly that. “Would I have...?” But this time, there was no suggestion of superiority, no smugness, no haughty smiles. There was simply a small, hoarse voice, and the ghost of concern lingering in his gaze.

“Would you have... k-killed me... if I—?”

“Never,” his arch-nemesis growled: the most assertive thing he’d said all day.

A glow entered Charles’ complexion, as joy had illuminated his being. It made Erik’s heart miss a painful beat, and his mouth contorted into a wistful smile. His hand, wrinkled and calloused, reached towards that smile, feeling impossibly, foolishly, as if that smile had really been all he was searching for.

Charles leaned forward and pressed his lips chastely against the other’s leathery cheek. “We’re old, Erik,” he mumbled, in a feeble attempt to dissuade more affections.

“Gee, I didn’t notice.”

Charles remembered his younger self, practicing relentlessly in the mirror, practicing confession after confession, every I love you there was. He’d turned the iconic red of ripened tomatoes, all the way down his neck. He’d stammer until he sounded like the pig from the cartoons. He’d smile so nervously that he could have told Raven he was working out in front of the mirror and he wouldn’t be half wrong. But, despite all that training, he hadn’t put any of it to use.

“Erik.” His voice was determined.

The other’s eyes flitted vaguely in his direction before drooping shut.

“I... I love you, Erik.” His voice broke, his grip on Erik’s hand tightening. He knew—he knew he should have done this sooner, but now, now that the man’s hand had gone limp, now it was too late. Now, he felt impossibly alone. He knew the general method of moving on—it would initially hurt, but if he immersed himself in teaching, he’d be able to move on. He knew he would have to be the strongest out of anyone, even if— even if no one but him were to be affected by the death of Erik Lehnsherr. There was only one problem.

He would never convince himself that he really did want to move on from his old friend.


End file.
